Dancer
by Zet Sway
Summary: Leon is a stripper.  AU.  Leon/Ada.  Oneshot.


A little over a year after I sat down on the train and began writing _Thief,_I've somehow managed to pump out this many fics. I'm so grateful for all of the wonderful people who have followed my work and left kind words. I'm sorry I don't respond personally as much as I used to, but thank you. Truly.

This bit of fun was inspired by BLackhaunt on DeviantArt. She's one of four authors in a wonderful AU story called The Big Blind, in which Umbrella is the king of casinos. I strongly encourage everyone to go have a read. The authors are A+, the story is sexy, and the art is amazing.

Now, If AU is not your thing, it might be in your best interests to turn away now.

However if you aren't horribly offended by the idea of Leon as a professional stripper in an alternate universe, and you don't absolutely hate him with Ada Wong, feel free to read on. To be clear, this was never really intended to be "in character." My apologies if this isn't your cup of tea.

I do not own Resident Evil, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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><p>Leon Scott. The star of this establishment, the pretty boy, the moneymaker and the man who isn't afraid to try anything for that extra bit of cash. He's just as well known here as she, his unspoken guest of honor, is. The bartenders know her, know exactly what she wants and exactly how well she tips them to save her favorite seat in the house and provide her a cold drink.<p>

The place is packed, she's not his only adoring fan. He's a local celebrity, brings even some of the most reserved of men and women to "his" club to see his show. The crowd mills about in the moments before the lights finally dim and the music changes. He struts out on the stage and everyone's cheering. Men, women, and everything in between, holding their drinks high and waving their cash just to see his face. He's the star of this place and he knows it. That wide-lipped trademark smirk on his face says it all.

Scott, they call him. Scott Hart. It's a lousy name and they both know it but this crowd is just eating it up. Only his favorite people have the privilege of knowing his real name, and she is one of them.

But "Scott" is looking mighty fine tonight. Shiny black shoes, black leather pants, a simple belt with a shiny silver buckle. Black vest, white button down shirt, red tie, leather gloves. And that black fedora. Always with the black fedora, white strip of silk just above the brim. Even with his golden hair falling over his eyes, that hat adds just the right amount of mystery and swag to his already impressive presence.

He stands for a moment and eyes his audience with a smile. It's what they love about him. He's not just another floozy dancing for cash, this man is an entertainer to his bones, he gets off on their screams and catcalls, loves to see the women swoon and the men get uncomfortable in their pants. There's excitement in his eyes, and the crowd screams at the first swing of his hips. He looks like he damn near looks like he wants to laugh. He loves the music and she can tell. He knows this whole song beat for beat, choreographed it over all his years of experience. His every move, every expression exudes confidence.

The vest is lost first, and he loosens his tie, pulling it free with more seduction than most of the dancers here can manage on a good day. It hangs undone around his neck. He swaggers across the edge of the stage. His shirt collar is unbuttoned and that sliver of exposed skin below his clavicles is like a giant flashing arrow pointing straight down, an intoxicating indicator of things to come. She makes no attempt to conceal her quite obvious stare. She knows he can feel her eyes burning into him from across the room. Those ice blue eyes meet hers for just a second and he's moving again, dancing. Dancing for _her_.

The club loves him, the patrons shower him in cash and he's hardly even showing skin yet. He gazes at his audience with heavy lidded eyes as he slowly unbuttons the rest of his shirt and they're absolutely wild with delight. It hangs off his body as he sways with the music. He raises a gloved hand to his mouth, his tongue flicking at his fingertip, sucking his long finger between his lips and biting it, slowly pulling the glove free from his hand. He tosses it to the crowd. Runs his hands down his torso, down the defined lines of muscle at his hips that plunge below his waistband and over the obvious, enticing bulge in his too-tight pants. Tugs at his belt, the smirk ever present on his lips.

More cash as he slips the button of his pants undone and slinks out of his open shirt. Turns his back to the crowd, turns his head to peer at them with a smile and a wink as he kicks off his shoes, tight leather-clad ass rolling as his spine undulates with each ripple of muscle down his back.

His body is lithe and fit, swaying and twitching with every thump of the bass and every flash of the lights. He's a star, entertaining his adoring fans be they man or woman. Sweat shines on his chest, skin pulled tight over every hard worked muscle under all those hot lights. He's flushed, visibly exerting himself but he makes it look so easy. He doesn't mind. Either he loves his job or he loves the money, and she's willing to bet it's a little of both. He's always loved the attention. Gets hard on it. Such a whore. Her whore. The zipper on his pants is wide open, the skin beneath is tantalizing and she can't take her eyes off it. His body is no mystery to her, but every show is like learning him all over again. The promise of more skin is like opening the perfect gift on Christmas morning and it gives her butterflies.

The entire club roars as his pants finally come off and he parades his nude, magnificent body around the stage with confidence. He strokes his erection with an audible sigh even as his hips rock to the pounding music. He is alluring, hypnotizing, positively oozing with sex. Sex that she's already thinking about. Claiming his body in ways the women watching him can't even dream of. She smirks. Those poor saps don't even know what they're missing He pours a shot of something down his chest and it falls in an amber stream down his belly, over his cock and unceremoniously on the ground. Cleans the residue off his fingers. Brandy, she knows it already. His favorite. Not exactly her taste but she'll take shots of damn near anything as long as it's off that body.

Her excitement builds as his show winds down. She knows he's seen her in the crowd. He knows what's waiting for him at the end of the show. He picks up his cash and blows kisses to the crowd before he saunters offstage.

And she waits. Feels the burning in her loins as she thinks about all the things she's going to do to Leon "Scott Hart" Kennedy when she finally gets her hands on him. Hands on that hard body, claws digging into his shoulders when she's finally on his dick and riding him hard. She smirks at the thought. She'll leave marks, brand him. She'll come back to see them still on his body at his next show and gloat over all his adoring fans wishing they were so lucky to even touch him.

So lost in her fantasy, she doesn't even notice when he walks out from the service doors and behind the bar. It's his voice. That _voice_. Makes her snap her head around. He hasn't even seen her. He's chatting with the bartender, a friend of his. They laugh and exchange goodbyes. Silently, she sets down her drink and walks out behind him. Watches him get into his black Jaguar before she leans against the passenger side window.

He unlocks the door immediately and she climbs in, climbs over the center console and into his lap, his face in her hands as she meets his lips in a heated kiss. She's incredibly hot for him and he can feel it. Groans into her kiss, hands on her hips and she's grinding into his. Hands are on his jacket, pushing it open and going to work on the button-down beneath. She pushes the garments back as he slinks out of them, hands on his bare shoulders and moving fast. That skin. She can never get enough of that skin. Smooth and soft.

She inhales alcohol and sweat, an intoxicating combination that only _he _smells like. She wants to bottle it, keep it under her pillow and dream about him like this every night. Selfish. Needs to have him all to herself.

She breathes him in, tangles her fingers in his hair and presses his face into the crook of her neck. His lips are so soft, his tongue leaves hot trails on her skin that cool, chillingly, under his breath. He mouths down her neck, teeth grazing her throat and she gasps. Hands push the straps of her dress off her shoulders and she's lost to his touch. Hands all over her body, teeth, lips, tongue, and he's _growling_, wants her just as much if not _more._

He slides the seat back as far as it can go and she's already on his fly, dragging his hardness out of those tight, black, leather pants. Pressing her hips into it, teasing him with her heat and now it's his turn to groan. Rough hands grip her so tight it hurts and he assaults her mouth, bites her lower lip and bucks into her. Can't get enough of her.

He's absolutely rough and fast, harsh, breathing heavy and then she finally gives him what he wants. Bunches up her skirt and pushes her panties to the side and slides onto him. He stills for just a moment, head falling back, moan falling from his lips. A moment later he's clawing into her back, cussing and groaning and gripping her hips like they're the last tangible thing he has to hang on to.

She's riding him hard but it's not enough. He needs more. Harder, faster. Overthrows her rhythm a fucks her for all he's worth because holy _shit_, no one feels as good as she does.

He's a different man. Starved. Chanting her name, dizzy and delirious with her touch, hands all over his chest, his back, in his hair, tugging and pulling and he's just so close…

…and _fuck._It's just like last time, only better. It's always better. A soul-gripping orgasm that rocks him straight to his core. He spasms, convulses, gasps even as she steals his breath with her greedy kiss.

He has no idea if she finished. Quite frankly, he doesn't care. But she seems sated and happy and perfectly content to lay over him as the air around them begins to cool.

She doesn't linger. He knew she wouldn't. But he can feel her mood has changed as she adjusts her dress and opens the driver's side door.

A smile, a swift kiss.

"See you around."


End file.
